In the quiet landscapes of the Netherlands, where windmills turn slowly over flat green fields and narrow canals curve between villages, a centuries-old craft is struggling to survive. The traditional Dutch wooden shoe, the klomp, once a symbol of everyday life and rural resilience, is now produced by only a handful of artisans.
These last clog makers, scattered across towns such as Eelde, Marken, and Zaandam, are fighting to preserve a heritage that has defined Dutch identity for over 700 years. Workshops like Klompenmakerij Koopman and Jan van den Berg Clogs, which have been operating since the early 20th century, still carve and decorate clogs using nearly the same techniques their forefathers relied on. Today, fewer than 15 traditional clog makers remain across the country, representing a dramatic decline from the more than 3,000 clog-producing workshops that were active before World War II.
Wooden clogs first appeared in the Netherlands in the 13th century, designed to protect the feet of farmers, fishermen, and factory workers who labored in harsh, muddy, and waterlogged environments. The shoes were practical, durable, and surprisingly comfortable, thanks to the use of willow and poplar woods, which are lightweight, shock-absorbent, and water-resistant. Historically, clog makers carved each pair by hand using axes and knives, a process that could take hours.
The arrival of mechanical clog-carving machines in the 1920s quickened production, but artisans still relied heavily on hand skills to refine each shoe. Even today, most traditional workshops use a combination of old machines and careful hand carving, preserving the authenticity of the craft. After carving and hollowing, the clogs are left to dry naturally for several weeks before being sanded and painted. Some are left plain for farmers who still wear them daily, while others are decorated with tulips, windmills, or regional motifs that appeal to tourists. A standard pair sells for €20 to €45, while ornate, hand-painted versions can exceed €100.
Among the remaining masters is Hendrik “Henk” de Vries from Friesland, a third-generation clog maker who learned the craft from his father and grandfather. For de Vries, clog making is more than a profession—it is a connection to family history and Dutch cultural heritage. “Clogs are not just shoes; they are memories,” he explains as he smooths the edges of a freshly carved pair. He estimates he produces around 1,500 pairs a year, most for tourists and folk-dance groups, though some still go to farmers who swear by their practicality. But de Vries worries about the future. Young people rarely show interest in learning the craft, mainly because the earnings are modest and the physical labor is demanding. “Without new hands, the tradition could disappear completely,” he says.
Tourism plays a crucial role in sustaining the craft today. At Zaanse Schans, an open-air museum near Amsterdam, clog-making demonstrations attract millions of visitors annually. Tourists watch fascinated as artisans carve a shoe in minutes using traditional tools. Many purchase miniature or full-size clogs as souvenirs, helping to keep the workshops financially afloat. Cultural institutions in the Netherlands are also pushing for clog making to be added to UNESCO’s list of Intangible Cultural Heritage, a move that artisans hope will bring recognition, funding, and new apprentices.
Despite modern footwear dominating the market, wooden clogs remain embedded in Dutch culture. Farmers value them for their durability, insulation, and safety. Clogs protect feet from sharp objects, animals, and heavy equipment. Environmentally, they are also considered sustainable: made from natural wood, they are biodegradable and have a far smaller carbon footprint than synthetic shoes. This combination of tradition, function, and environmental consciousness gives clog makers hope that their craft can evolve rather than vanish.
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Still, the survival of the craft hangs in the balance. Many workshops have diversified by offering custom designs, brightly colored fashion clogs, or engraved pieces aimed at younger buyers. Others sell decorative or collectible clogs rather than functional ones. Yet the heart of the craft remains tied to the wooden shoe’s original purpose and its historical significance. “Every pair tells a story,” de Vries says. “If we stop making them, a part of the Netherlands disappears with us.”
With only a few masters left, Dutch clog making stands at a critical crossroads. Whether it thrives or fades will depend on tourism, cultural preservation efforts, and the willingness of the next generation to carry forward a tradition carved into Dutch history itself. For now, in workshops that smell of fresh wood and echo with the sound of carving tools, the last clog makers continue their work quietly, passionately, and with a sense of responsibility to the past.
